


No reason for anger

by Glittergalaxy_Senpai



Series: Melkor/Mairon translations || Lalann [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, injured Sauron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glittergalaxy_Senpai/pseuds/Glittergalaxy_Senpai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then Sauron yielded himself, and Lúthien took the mastery of the isle and all that was there; and Huan released him. And immediately he took the form of a vampire, great as a dark cloud across the moon, and he fled, dripping blood from his throat upon the trees, and came to Tar-nu-Fuin, and dwelt there, filling it with horror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No reason for anger

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Нет смысла гневаться](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/179065) by Lalann. 



> Hello there~ I am back with another translation.  
> Please forgive me for any possible grammatical or stylistic mistakes, the original text was a bit harder to work with. ^^" You are always welcome to correct me.
> 
> A rather tender work, I would say, but thankfully not overloaded with fluff and OOC. Ah, don't we all know that the events after the loss of Tol Sirion are portrayed as either violent and abusive or extremely fluffy? xD  
> This wonderful masterpiece is my favorite among many about this time period. The author, Lalann, has a very uniquely charming and pleasant style and I tried my best to keep it while translating. 
> 
> Lalann mentions their appearance was inspired by Phobs' artworks, but since the fanfic was written a while ago, keep in mind that she refers to the early (if not first) concepts of them.

A waning moon shines somewhere high above, but there is no one left to howl at it.  
  
The damn stars above him shine bright and clear, so pure and kind, so helpful for all the good creatures on Arda that it makes him sick. Not that Sauron has no other reasons for feeling this way now.  
  
_It hurts._

Gorthaur lies on the rocky, barren ground, motionless and completely helpless, and his vision is blurred. He hears how blood flows from his wounded neck, dripping on the solid ground, how the blood droplets gather in one poisonous trickle and how sand and clay are hissing and bubbling beneath him. Sauron hopes that the bloody hound, Huan,  suffers was well by now, if only the pernicious Elvish maiden with the child-like face and the gentle voice is not nearby and healing him. 

_It hurts._

A while ago Sauron would try to squeeze his hands around his torn neck to stop the bleeding. Treacherous weakness spreads all over his body and it makes no sense for him to even try and breathе the cold air. A warm wave of pain takes over and makes him choke on his breath and forget to exhale. 

_Although, why does he need to breath?_

With the pain comes fear, but not for too long: he falls into oblivion, losing track of time, and even the horribly bright sun cannot wake him. During the hot afternoon he would only close his eyes with his palm and shudder when a fly would sit down on his neck to taste the poisonous blood. The ground beneath him turns dusty and red, and even moss would not grow on it. But Sauron does not see it. He sees either red or black and hears his own shallow breath.

_Although, why does he need to breath?_

Deep inside on the edge of his  consciousness lies a thought that he wouldn't last for too long. It is unlikely his Master would forgive him a defeat by a weak Elvish princess and a mortal man. And he would be right as usual - it was simply ridiculous.

Blood pours noisily from vessel to vessel, and it feels so deafening. Like the sound a wave. Like the roar of the wind. Like the breath of a dragon. Unbearably loud.

 

Yet, unexpectedly, Melkor is not angry with Sauron.  He is rather annoyed that a Silmaril was stolen from him - and what's even worse, from the main entrance - by a featureless mortal and an Elvish maiden. The two of them successfully did what no army could, and such a pity they were not on his side. 

By the end of the third day his servants bring Sauron back to Angband. Melkor looks at him for no longer than a minute and turns away: this painfully bended neck, just like the one of a dead bird, and the clotted blood makes him feel pity - such a pathetic feeling. But it is no pity in relation to Sauron anyway. 

A lifelessly thrown back head and lips cracked from thirst were what he remembered clearly. 

His servants take Sauron deep inside the fortress of Angband, closer to fire and away from the sun and stars. There are no healers here and obviously he wouldn't die from his injuries. This is the first and the last time Melkor thinks that, perhaps, a healer could be useful.  

 

On the next day Sauron wakes up. 

The beloved, warm darkness surrounds him. Тhe wound has healed somehow and all the pain has gone, curled in a warm tangle deep inside him. 

He lies so long, too long, and listens to the blood flowing through his veins, to the silence around him, and it seems he will never get tired of it - of this thin line between a troubled sleep and a painful wakefulness. Just as if the whole purpose was only seeing palpable darkness and phantom visions and dreams.

He could have raved but it seems that Huan's fangs damaged his ligaments. Ah, if only he could die! Or, what would be even better, got infected with human plague, survived, and remained crippled. Such a nasty hound. 

 

His Master's heavy steps break the silence. He hears them and it feels like they're painfully calling him from somewhere deep inside his heart.  


_ Although, why does he need a heart? _

What will his Master do to him?  Will his anger affect the pain? Clearly the faithful Gorthaur is still needed if he was brought back here. But it wouldn't exclude him from a punishment for his failure. His Master is cruel and it is right, but it will hurt so much... 

He is so worried and the pain awakens, feeling like sharp fangs which are biting into his flesh. Terrified from such unexpectedness, he forgets to breathe and feels a painful stab in his chest. 

Melkor stops in front of him and his cold glance lacks of any emotion. 

Melkor looks at the dark golden locks, at the sharpened features of Sauron's face, at his dull amber eyes, halfway closed from fever, and thinks that, after all, the Elvish princess was not as good as he thought. Her beauty was too sweet and gentle. Too bright, too cloying. 

 

And Gorthaur was named Mairon for a reason.

 

Sauron wants so say something - anything - in his defense, something that could clear his Master's intentions and draw his anger away, something that would break this terrible silence. But he only manages to let a whistling sigh out, and something tears inside his damaged throat and dark blood pours from his mouth. 

Melkor says only one, well-forgotten word: 

"Mairon."  
His first name. The Admirable.  


And within this name hides everything: all the forgiveness and affection, the unspoken pity and care, such unworthy and unusual for a dark Vala. 

A small hand with massive rings on each fingers lies in a bigger, armored black hand for a few minutes. And dry, chapped lips pressed against paler lips - just for а moment and no longer. 

Melkor listens to the weak, calm breath of his lieutenant and it sounds more beautiful than any music.

Mairon closes his eyes, and his pain goes away.

 


End file.
